Squeaky Clean
by demonkatgurl17
Summary: Stiles goes over to Peter's apartment a week later with an itch to scratch. (Set around a week after "I know I Shouldn't", 4th installment in the "Painted" series)


This advisory is for those who get squicked out easily by bathroom-type stuff, even if it isn't terrible explicit.

This is set in season 3 up through episode 4, in case anyone gets confused. I'm trying to pace my porn with the drama of the show x.x

* * *

Stiles only had to wait a few scant seconds after knocking on the heavy door before it was opened, revealing a barefoot Peter who seemed curious but unsurprised to see him.

"Stiles. I was wondering when you'd stop by," Peter said, as he cast an amused eye over the teen.

Stiles blinked, thrown. "You were expecting me? Wha—for how long?"

Leaning against the door frame, Peter smirked. "Since the first time you followed me home. Considering that was nearly a _week_ ago, I was starting to think I'd _have_ to send you that engraved invitation. I'm glad you saved me the trouble," he said, flashing a toothy smile and stepping back, bidding Stiles to come in with a sweep of his arm.

Red with mortification, Stiles lingered on the doorstep for a moment, uncertain—which lasted all of two seconds until his curiosity won out and he dashed inside, hardly having the presence of mind to close the door behind him as his eyes darted around, taking in Peter's apartment. "So you, uh, you noticed that, huh?" Stiles asked, embarrassed that he had been caught out but impressed that Peter had known yet hadn't let on.

Fucking werewolves.

Peter gave him a knowing smile that Stiles found sexy and irritating at the same time. "I've been inside your Jeep before, Stiles. I know what it sounds like. _And_ looks like. Make yourself comfortable, I'll see about some drinks," Peter said, leaving Stiles to continue his ogling.

It was an average-sized apartment, more than enough for a bachelor, especially a bachelor who probably didn't have many personal possessions after the Hale House fire.

The main living area was sparsely decorated, the only real furniture in the room consisting of a large, slouchy couch with a sturdy-looking coffee table in front of it. Across the room opposite the furniture sat a decent looking entertainment system. The system wasn't _ungodly_ big, but the flat screen TV alone took up much of the wall space and the worked wooden cabinet supporting an array of speakers pretty much took up the remaining floor space below the TV.

Out of all the things in the apartment, the entertainment system looked like it was the one thing Peter had splurged on. At least without taking a peek in the man's bedroom (Stiles swore that if there was an elaborate harness hanging from the ceiling or a display of whips on the wall that he was going to die laughing, because how cliché would that be?).

Not far past the couch was the entrance to a small kitchen and Stiles could hardly see down the short, darkened hallway that ran directly opposite the front door, probably leading to the bedroom and bathroom.

It was a nice set up for Peter. Practical, almost quaint.

You'd never suspect that the occupant was a werewolf. In a way, the apartment was a reflection of Peter: quiet and seemingly ordinary.

Stiles liked it.

While Stiles took in his surroundings, Peter had disappeared into the kitchen, puttering around with something in the fridge from the sound of it. "I have iced tea. Or water, if you prefer. I don't entertain much so your choice of drinks is limited," Peter called from the kitchen.

"Uh, tea is good," Stiles said, slightly distracted as he traced his fingers over the worn weave of the couch. He plopped down onto it and was awed by how comfortable the couch was, despite its apparent age. He bounced on it, experimentally; not one annoying squeak of springs.

_Nice_, he thought to himself as he squirmed around to lie sprawled on his back, one leg hooked over the armrest while the foot of his other carelessly rested on the thin gray carpet that covered the floor. Okay, the couch was more than a little awesome. Stiles could definitely fall asleep on it if Peter left him alone too long. His eyes drifted shut as he wiggled round, getting settled, letting Peter's scent relax him.

Peter must spend a lot of time on the couch for it to smell like him. Stiles could picture him sitting here, watching TV or movies. Or porn, Peter splayed out across the couch and jacking himself—

Inhaling sharply, Stiles rubbed the heel of his hand across his cock, which had started twitching at the thought. _Down boy_, he mentally chastised, trying to think of something else. He might have planned on finding some kind of happy ending, but he could do without popping a boner for the moment.

His hand fell away and Stiles felt his conscious-self begin to drift, lulled by the coziness of the couch.

A soft chuckle jerked Stiles out of the light doze he'd fallen into and his eyes snapped open. His arms and legs flailed about, instinctively defending himself from whoever had crept up on him—which turned out to only be Peter, standing on the other side of the coffee table with a couple glasses of iced tea. "I guess I don't have to ask if you like the couch," Peter remarked idly, smirking as he set a glass down on the table near Stiles.

Sitting up properly to give the older man some room next to him, Stiles ran a hand through his grown-out hair, smiling sheepishly. "Uh, yeah, I like it. Good call," Stiles said. He leaned forward for his glass and took a sip, more to have something to do with his hands than out of any real thirst.

"Thank you." A small, genuine smile lit up Peter's face and he took a drink from his own glass, openly staring at Stiles. He was half turned on the couch so that his torso was angled towards Stiles, his knee almost touching Stiles's thigh. Peter propped his elbow on the back of the couch so that he could pillow his chin on his hand, somehow managing to look completely fascinated and moderately bored at the same time.

There were only a few inches of space between them and, while Stiles was keen on having another encounter like the one in Derek's loft, Peter still made him incredibly nervous (and the bedroom eyes the older man was giving him weren't helping either).

Stiles managed to keep still for nearly thirty seconds before he could no longer hold back the urge to move, his leg bouncing lightly on the ball of his foot as he drew random shapes in the condensation on his glass with his thumb. His gaze began to flick back and forth between Peter and the rest of the living room, unable to settle for too long on any one thing before his attention inevitably wandered back to the clear blue eyes relentlessly staring at him.

Slightly anxious, Peter's steadfast concentration made Stiles wonder if his face was really that interesting or if there was something on it.

"So…" Stiles drew out, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "How've you been? Y'know… with all the craziness of the past week? Finding Boyd and Erica…and Cora. She's, like, your niece, right? That's what Scott said, at least."

Peter made no attempt to answer, but Stiles perceived a slight tightening of the skin around the older man's eyes and decided to change the subject. "I guess you've heard about the murders cropping up lately, too. The Three-Fold Deaths?—well, that's what _I've_ been calling them, not what everyone _else_ calls them because they don't know what they are. Not that _we_ really know what they are…or who's behind them…or anything useful... Do _you_ know anything about them?"

Peter offered nothing, just sipped his tea while giving the same politely bored stare, as though he were waiting for Stiles to stop talking.

That had the opposite effect on Stiles.

"Me, Lydia, and Deaton have been trying to figure out who the killer is," Stiles continued, "All we came up with was that there's some kind of 'druid' who's going around killing people in groups of three. In _themes_. As if normal murder was boring or something—"

"Did you _really_ come here to just to hit me up for information?" Peter asked. He looked almost disappointed as he broke his staring to study his tea glass, apparently more interested in the trails of condensation on it than in discussing the latest murder spree in Beacon Hills.

Maybe because it wasn't _his_ murder spree?

"Uh, that…wasn't the _main_ reason I came over, but I thought it would be polite to make small talk first. Unless, you don't like small talk, in which case, I can stop talking. Do you want me to stop talking? 'Cause we can do something else. I am _all_ for doing something else—"

Stiles's jittery chatter was cut off when Peter suddenly leaned forward and caught Stiles's lips up in a brief kiss, pulling away after giving a nip to Stiles's plump bottom lip. Taking advantage of Stiles's momentarily distraction, Peter set his glass on the coffee table and gently tugged Stiles's out of the teen's lax hands, setting it down on the table as well. Reclining back against the couch, Peter watched Stiles expectantly, waiting for him to catch up with himself.

Apparently Stiles wasn't the only one interested in round two.

Stiles cleared his throat, his now empty hands fidgeting restlessly. "I'm good with that." He shifted a little closer to the older man, his leg rubbing against Peter's knee. "_Really_ good…"

They met in the middle this time, kissing slow and unhurried. At some point, Peter managed to coax Stiles into moving, gently manhandling the teen until he was straddling Peter, not once breaking the kiss.

Somewhere between the first press of Peter's lips and clambering into the older man's lap, Stiles had gotten hard and he couldn't keep from rubbing his crotch against Peter's firm abs in lazy, maddening rolls of his hips, Peter encouraging the movement with his hands on Stiles's ass.

Stiles felt drugged, like his mind was slowly flitting away with every languid stroke of Peter's tongue, with every caress and squeeze of Peter's hands.

It was addicting. He could see why people made out so much, obsessed over it, even. Kissing Peter made him feel like he was punch drunk while wrapped up in a blanket fresh out of the dryer—warm and fuzzy and mellow as hell. Stiles practically melted against Peter, his arms wrapped around the older man's neck as he undulated languidly, lost in the haze filling his mind.

Peter's hips pushed up and the sudden movement jarred Stiles out of the kiss. When he settled back into place on Peter's lap, he rocked forward again and this time Stiles realized that the older man was sporting a pretty impressive bulge that pressed into his ass when he moved rocked back.

A sly grin tugging at his lips, he stared into Peter's eyes as he deliberately moved back harder against Peter's cock, finishing off the press with a little twist of his hips that ground his ass against the bulge, and then rocked forward to tease his own cock with some friction. The flash of supernatural blue aimed at him sent a shiver down his spine. It made him feel hunted and yet strangely powerful.

He wanted to see it again.

Keeping up the tantalizing sway of his hips, Stiles allowed one of his hands to wander, exploring Peter's broad chest through the man's shirt, tracing the faint outline of muscle and bone with the edges of his fingernails. He couldn't feel Peter's chest hair through the shirt, but there was something about knowing that he was a scrap of clothing away from being able to _touch_ it that made Stiles swallow hard.

Peter slid a hand up from Stiles's ass to grip the back of his neck, dragging Stiles into an open-mouthed kiss, breaking it a few seconds later, heat burning in his eyes. "Keep that up and I might have to fuck you right here," Peter said, his voice a low rasp.

"Maybe I want you to," Stiles said daringly, and then gave one of Peter's nipples a sharp tweak through his thin cotton shirt.

Hissing through his clenched teeth, Peter's eyes flashed again. "_Without_ lube."

Stiles's breath caught slightly, turned on rather than frightened by the threat. _What the hell was _wrong_ with him?_ "I thought you said you've been expecting me for a while. You didn't stash slick around the apartment in case I wanted to help you christen it?" Stiles teased, running his hand across the abused nipple, soothing it. Then he froze in place, even his hips stilling. "Um, I didn't mean— Not that you _haven't_ already christened it. That wasn't a backwards way of asking how many partners you've had in here, or anything. I mean, if you _have,_ it's cool. You probably have no problem bringing 'em home left and right—"

His hurried backpedaling was cut off as Peter gave him another kiss, thankfully before Stiles could embarrass himself further.

Pulling away, Peter ran his hand down Stiles's chest, his fingers drawing whirls and shapes down to Stiles's hips, the touch compelling him to start rocking his hips again. "I haven't christened it yet," Peter admitted unexpectedly. "But with a little help from the gorgeous nymph in my lap, I'm sure it could be arranged," he said, his thumb rubbing in tight circles at Stiles's hips, making them judder for a brief moment.

"Dude, I'm already in your lap. You don't need to do the whole obligated flattery thing," Stiles muttered, feeling a blush spreading across his cheeks.

Cock his head, Peter's eyes narrowed. "You don't know how enticing you are, do you?" he asked with hint of wonder in his voice.

"Yeah, 'cause I've had _so_ many offers," Stiles said sarcastically, opting to study the weave of Peter's shirt rather than see any pity in the older man's eyes. "Seriously, you don't have to —whoa!" he cried out when Peter stood without warning, supporting Stiles's weight with his fingers laced under Stiles's ass.

Stiles held clutched at Peter's neck, his legs squeezing around the older man's waist to keep from falling (not that _could_ fall unless Peter wanted him to). "What are you doing?" Stiles squeaked out, alarmed that he was no longer safely touching the ground.

Peter gave him a secretive smile as he turned and began to walk, Stiles still in his arms. "Killing two birds with one stone."

"Okay, if either of the birds is me, I am _definitely_ not okay with this," Stiles said as they entered the darkened hallway he had seen earlier.

A sharp turn later, they passed through a doorway into a pitch-black room.

Peter lowered him down onto something soft and springy (_at least he actually has a bed_ Stiles thought) and then moved away completely. "Watch your eyes," he called a moment before he flicked on the lights, illuminating the room.

Blinking to adjust to the wash of light, Stiles turned his head this way and that, peering about the room.

It was kind of weird that part of him was sort of disappointed at the lack of a hanging harness or even a slight dungeon-y ambiance.

Peter's bedroom was much like the main room: simple and fairly bare of belongings. The bed clothes were in dull shades of blue and were the only real source of color in the room. A closed closet took up most of one wall and furnishings were spread evenly around the small space—a nightstand by the bed, a modest sized dresser against a wall, and a full-length mirror was propped near the closet.

Stiles's attention snapped back to Peter when the older man came closer and stood between Stiles's splayed legs, dangled as they were over the edge of the bed. The suggestive position sparked something in Stiles and he leaned back onto his elbows, putting himself on display, shifting his knees a little further apart to give Peter more room. "I guess you changed your mind about couch sex?" he asked, internally surprised at how husky his voice sounded all of a sudden.

Peter leaned over Stiles, supporting his weight on either side of the teen's head, and dipped close enough to trace his nose teasingly against Stiles's, his lips dancing just out of reach. "Mhmm...I had an idea," he said, pressing his lips to Stiles's in a light kiss, then dropped another on his chin, "about how to," he pressed another kiss pressed to Stiles's chest, then another a little further down, "go about dealing," a kiss low on Stiles's belly, "with your insecurity." He hovered over Stiles's crotch, staring into the teen's eyes as he placed a lingering kiss over the tented material.

A soft whine rang out and it was a moment before Stiles realized that _he_ had made the sound.

He cleared his throat, swallowing roughly. "What did…what did you have in mind?"

A smug little smirk pulled at Peter's lips as he stood up and moved away from Stiles once again, walking over to where the long mirror rested against the wall.

Curious, Stiles watched (with no small amount of confusion) as Peter picked it up and repositioned it so that it leaned against the wall facing the long side of the bed. It wasn't until Peter turned to him expectantly that Stiles understood why Peter had moved the mirror.

"That's…that's new," was all he could manage since his mouth had gone rather dry at the thought of being able to see what it looked like when Peter fucked him. From his laid back position at the end of the bed, Stiles wasn't at the right angle to see himself in the mirror, which meant he'd need to be closer up to the headboard to see into it. But interesting as the addition was, he still didn't get how the mirror was supposed to make him less insecure about his looks.

"Now," Peter said as he casually stripped off his shirt, "clothes off, Stiles." And then he tossed his shirt carelessly to the floor, his bare chest available for scrutiny.

As the older man went to work on unfastening his pants, Stiles raked his gaze over Peter's chest.

The thing about Peter was that he was a man—and actually _looked_ like a man. His chest was broad and muscled (but not _overly_ muscled) and there was a fair dusting of dark hair across his chest, a thicker, darker trail leading from his navel straight down past his pant line. Stiles's fingers itched to touch and explore since he himself didn't have much hair on his chest beyond the strip that gathered below his own navel (that and Stiles never quite got around to playing with Peter's chest hair last time).

But Peter wanted him to strip.

"Bossy, much?" Stiles quipped, snapping himself out of his gawking session. Fumbling slightly, he speedily set about catching up to Peter's state of undress, which was boxers and nothing else. He kicked off his shoes, not caring that the knots would be hell to deal with later (he wasn't about to waste time untying his shoelaces when someone wanted to see him _naked)_.

Peter snorted and rolled his eyes. "As if you mind," He shot back, looking far too pleased with himself.

Peter walked around him to get to the nightstand and Stiles didn't even bother to hide the fact that he couldn't keep his eyes off the older man.

Not that Peter _needed_ any help inflating his ego, but _damn_ he had a nice body for being about twice Stiles's age.

Stiles stood up to shuck off his boxers along with his pants (he was jumping ahead in the game) while Peter rifled through the drawer of the nightstand. A tell-tale crinkling of plastic drew Stiles's attention away from toeing off his socks as Peter withdrew a bottle of lube and a couple of condoms.

"Ah, about the condoms," Stiles started hesitantly, sitting back down on the end of the bed (standing naked with a boner had always made him feel weird).

''Just for hygiene," Peter soothed, re-shutting the drawer. "That way we don't have to worry as much about the…_less_ pleasant side of anal sex." He returned to Stiles's side and dropped his find on the coverlet. Cocking his head to this side, he glanced over Stiles's naked body with a satisfied smile. "You know, for as much as you seem to hate having your body complimented, you certainly don't need much prodding to strip down. I think I found another kink of yours."

Stiles blushed, certain that there was an 'easy' joke in there somewhere, but was unable to really call Peter on it. "Hey, uh, here's a hypothetical situation," he nervously hedged. "If we didn't have to _worry_, per se, about the, ah…_mess_, we wouldn't actually need the condoms, would we?"

"And how _exactly_ would we get to that situation?" Peter asked, regarding Stiles shrewdly.

Unconsciously picking at the edge of a nail, Stiles fought the embarrassment rising inside of him, tamping it down as he searched for words he never dreamed he'd need to describe what he'd done (at least to anyone other than a doctor).

Bowel cleansing.

The idea had flickered into his mind a week or so ago, after he'd had sex with Peter and later discovered some… _smears_ on his backside and, subsequently, in his shorts—_hella_ gross. Having to clean up the mess had been off-putting to the point that Stiles had regretted having sex with Peter. Well, for all of five minutes at least. He'd soon recanted his negative thoughts because it felt blasphemous to be upset with something that had given him so much spank bank material (sort of like swearing in your grandma's house—you just don't do it).

He fully understood why Peter had insisted on using a condom and, despite the soreness and awkward clean up after his first time, Stiles had _really_ wanted to try it again, only bareback. But there was the whole 'hey, this is an out-flow canal and it sometimes has residual ickiness inside' issue that had given him some pause—until he remembered something that Peter had whispered in his ear while buried balls deep in his ass, something about _cleaning him out_ and _then_ coming inside him.

So, really, all it came down to was finding a way to 'clean himself out', and what better way around an embarrassing anal issue than to research a solution on the Internet.

The gem of a solution that the Internet had spat out (for people _really_ keen on having clean anal sex) was enemas: putting liquid into your ass with either a douche bulb or a bag-and-hose system in order to remove whatever fecal matter remained in the rectum and lower bowels.

A few topic searches had turned into several dozen and then there were the helpful web videos he'd stumbled upon, ranging from the _highly_ detailed to the disturbingly graphic (with a smattering of documented disasters that Stiles didn't know how he'd sat through without vomiting). There were hundreds of sites dedicated to the "art" that was enema usage—medical sites, homeopathic remedy sites, how-to pages with diagrams, sex sites, etc. You could get all sorts of equipment, even special enema hose nozzles for prostate stimulation (because apparently enema play was a _thing_). And the _recipes_, god, you could mix all kinds of solutions to clean out your passages.

In short, Stiles had found out that the Internet was a veritable mecca for all things enema and his sex-ed class hadn't covered _any_ of it.

But Stiles wasn't stupid. He had quickly decided that he didn't want an elaborate production or oodles of damning equipment that he'd have to hide so he'd ordered a small, simple douche bulb online and had it discretely express shipped to his house (he also may have given in and bought a dildo along with it).

Today, while his dad had been at work, Stiles had locked himself in the bathroom with his enema bulb and his bottle of lube. Filling the small blue bulb up with warm water had been far more intimidating than it should have been, but the weirdest part by far had been getting down on his hands and knees on an old towel and inserting the lubricated nozzle into his ass, slowly squeezing the bulb until his rectum was full of water.

Despite reading the directions, he'd still managed to make a complete mess of his first attempt, but after laying down a new towel and refilling his little bulb, Stiles had gotten the hang of clenching around the nozzle tip as he'd pulled it out (standing and getting to the toilet to 'flush' himself had still been tricky, but he figured there wasn't much to be done about that). After four _complete_ evacuations, Stiles had cleaned everything down and thrown the towels in the washing machine, removing any evidence that he'd basically just rinsed out his ass. Then a few hours later, he had worked up the nerve to go and knock on the apartment door he'd seen Peter vanish behind earlier in the week.

His anus clenched at the memory of having the nozzle inside of him and Stiles suppressed a shiver of arousal.

"Well, uh, after we had sex, I did some research on ways to, y'know… clean yourself…on the inside, and I found a lot of information and tips and instructional videos…and I was curious so I kind of…tried it. All squeaky clean now," Stiles finished lamely, somehow making the whole nerve-wracking undertaking sound as boring as trying out a new cereal.

The admission seemed to shock Peter into silence. He stared at Stiles with a mixture of wonder and delight, as though Stiles had performed a trick that Peter hadn't known he could do.

The attention was unnerving and Stiles found his gaze wandering about the room again as Peter just stood there, still as a statue. Had Stiles gone too far? Was the 'cleaning' something that Peter had wanted to actually _help_ him with? He didn't know what to think and he wasn't getting any feedback that could be considered useful…

When Peter finally did move, Stiles jumped minutely on the bed, unprepared to have the older man lean down and draw him into a filthy, wet kiss.

Winding his arms around Peter's neck, Stiles relaxed into the kiss, his nervousness and uncertainty melting away into nothing under the older man's clever tongue.

Peter's arms slid around him, stroking and kneading the soft flesh of his back, tracing over the bumps of his spine in erratic passes that distracted Stiles from realizing that he was being pushed back onto the bed until his fevered skin met the cool fabric of the coverlet. But Stiles didn't have to worry about the chill for more than a moment because Peter had bent down with him, his chest pressing onto Stiles's, his wiry chest hair tickling the teen's almost baby-smooth skin.

With his arms raised over his head, Stiles was practically pinned to the bed by the older man's weight, unable to do more than run his hands reverently across Peter's broad shoulders. And that was fine with Stiles (even though he still wasn't able to touch Peter's chest like he wanted). The position didn't _really_ make him feel trapped, despite not being able to move from hip to shoulder, but then again he was too caught up in the firm pressure against his cock and the tongue fucking into his mouth to truly care.

Though he did mind when, out of the blue, Peter seemed to decide that lying at the end of the bed wasn't good enough. Peter didn't even bother asking Stiles if he wanted to move—in fact, the older man did everything _for _him.

The arms Stiles was resting on shifted: one drawing up to squeeze Stiles further against Peter's chest and the other slithering out from beneath him, Peter using it to lever himself up, taking Stiles with him.

"Mrm—hey!" Stiles sputtered as he pulled out of the kiss, his fingernails digging into Peter's back as he found himself being dragged further up the bed, most of his weight supported by the way the older man was cradling him in one arm.

Then all of a sudden, Peter dropped him, letting him flail comically as he bounced on the mattress.

Stiles glared up at Peter's smirking face. "Okay, most people ask _politely_ for someone to move before they just—hey!" Stiles didn't even get to finish his sentence before Peter was flipping him onto his stomach, his legs being manhandled around Peter's body before the older man resituated himself between Stiles's legs.

"Rude," Stiles muttered into the coverlet, tempted to leave a big, wet drool spot in retaliation.

He felt the mattress shift and then Peter was whispering into his ear. "I'm not most people."

Huffing, Stiles rolled his eyes. "No kidding," he said sarcastically.

The mattress shifted again as Peter leaned back, but Stiles just continued to lie placidly and let his eyes wander around his field of vision, too lazy to crane his neck around to see what the older man was doing. Hell, Peter had made the effort to reposition him in the first damn place so he might as well stay put.

"I have to admit," Peter said, finally settling behind Stiles, "I kinda _like_ moving you around like that. It's like having my own life-sized ragdoll."

"Well, careful. You break it, you bought i—IT!" Peter's tongue, warm and wet, had licked a stripe along the crease of Stiles's ass and Stiles would have jolted forward on the bed from shock if it hadn't been for Peter's hand coming down on the back of his hips to hold him down. "Hngn…" Stiles moaned out, already on the way to becoming unintelligible. He'd almost forgotten how thrilling it had been to have Peter eat him out.

Goosebumps rose over Stiles's arms from anticipation.

"What was that? You stumbled over that last part," Peter said. Stiles could practically _hear_ Peter's insufferable grinning, but he didn't care. Peter could mock him all he wanted, just so long as he kept _licking_. Not trusting himself to speak, Stiles tilted his hips back invitingly and spread his legs open a fraction more, hoping the older man would have mercy on him.

Both of Peter's hands moved to grasp Stiles's ass, a firm globe in each hand. He massaged and kneaded, dragging his fingertips over the smooth skin, and the fondling both relaxed and sent Stiles on edge.

Finally, Peter spread his cheeks, exposing Stiles's hole. He waited for what felt like forever before flicking his tongue over the ring of muscle, drawing back a second later to gently blow on it, making it clench tighter and then loosen, _winking_.

"So eager…can't believe you actually cleaned yourself out for me," Peter murmured as Stiles fought to keep still and not grind his cock against the covers (it was close to leaking already).

"Please," Stiles threaded out, embarrassed by how needy he sounded considering Peter had hardly touched him.

"And polite, too," Peter said, amused, and then pressed his lips to Stiles's hole in the most obscenely chaste kiss.

Gathering up a wad of the coverlet, Stiles bit down on it, using it to muffle his cry at the first stab of tongue into his hole.

Peter paused at the noise and quickly withdrew, giving a hard slap to one of Stiles's cheeks that made the teen yelp around his makeshift gag. He crawled up Stiles's body, pressing the teen down to the bed. "Spit it out," he hissed in Stiles's ear. "I want to _hear_ you."

Trembling, Stiles spat out his mouthful of wet cover, harder than he'd ever been in his life. Slapping had always looked lame in porn, but when Peter did it, it was fucking _hot_.

Giving Stiles's ear a rough nip, Peter slithered back into place between the teen's thighs, gently closing his jaws around a chunk of Stiles's ass—a warning and a promise. Spreading apart Stiles's cheeks again, Peter leaned forward and shoved his tongue deep inside with no kindness and no preamble.

"_God_," Stiles choked out, clawing at the covers as Peter's tongue _fucked_ his hole, stabbing in deep and pulling out slow over and over and over, making Stiles whimper and sob. Peter's grip on his ass prevented him from moving back onto the tongue _or_ grind against the coverlet so Stiles was forced to endure every roll, every thrust, and every graze of teeth, sopping wet from Peter's saliva from his hole to his balls.

Peter withdrew with an obscene wet smack and Stiles didn't know whether to thank the older man for stopping or beg to be tongue-fucked again.

A loud plastic popping sound shot out and it made Stiles flinch before understanding struck him: lube. He hummed nonsensically, his body melting into the coverlet with the knowledge that the teasing was over.

A slick finger pressed to his loosened hole and paused, waiting.

_So much for the teasing being over_, Stiles thought to himself hysterically. "_Please_ put it in," he whined, no longer giving a damn about how needy he sounded because he _needed_ Peter to put something in him, whether it was a tongue or a finger or a thick, hard cock, Stiles didn't care.

Releasing a pleased hum, Peter pushed his finger deep inside Stiles in one smooth slide, withdrawing it slowly until just the tip remained, then added a second, twisting and stretching Stiles's tight hole as he thrust them in and out, in and out.

By the third finger, Stiles was a shaking wreck. Peter was making sure to graze his prostate with every other thrust, sending tantalizing little jolts through him that made Stiles's sac draw up, but whenever he came close to coming, Peter's fingers would slow down or withdraw almost completely.

Stiles whined, needing more, certain that he'd gotten more drool on Peter's coverlet from his mouth being constantly open.

Finally withdrawing his fingers, Peter gave Stiles's ass a fond smack, Stiles jolting slightly at the unexpected contact.

"Turn over, Stiles," Peter murmured softly, tapping at the teen's side, trying to prod him into motion.

Stiles huffed, unsure if he _could_ move after pushing back against Peter's restraining hands for so long. "Thought you liked moving me like a ragdoll," he slurred, rolling his hips lazily against the coverlet to give his now leaking cock some friction.

Behind him, Peter gave a sigh before manhandling Stiles onto his back again, only this time the older man didn't re-position himself between Stiles's thighs. Instead, Peter slid an arm underneath Stiles and, in one fluid movement, flipped them so that _Peter_ lay on his back with Stiles sprawled on top of him, their hard cock's brushing.

"You have to be the heaviest ragdoll I've ever seen," Peter said, taking it upon himself to rearrange Stiles's limbs until the teen was effectively straddling him, even though Stiles was still lying flat out on Peter's chest.

"Mmm," Stiles groaned, rocking his hips, his cock leaving smears of precome in the dark trail of hair running down from Peter's navel.

"_No_, Stiles," Peter admonished, pushing at Stiles's chest until Stiles sat up properly, holding his hips in place so that the teen couldn't thrust until Peter allowed him to. Once Stiles quit wiggling on his lap, Peter released him, leveling him with a stern stare that plainly said 'don't move'. Picking up the abandoned bottle, Peter drizzled a generous amount of lube onto his palm and slicked himself from root to tip, stroking languidly.

"Ride me," Peter said, his voice low and commanding.

Ah.

Stiles blinked, stymied.

'Riding' had never really fascinated him. Most of his favorite pornos featured the bottom, well, on the _bottom_. To bottom from the _top_ was a whole different ball game.

But if Peter wanted him to…

Laying his hands flat on Peter's abdomen, Stiles shakily knelt up until he felt the tip of Peter's cock brush against the swell of his ass.

"Um," he said, stalling because he really didn't know where to go from here.

Luckily, Peter was a hands-on guy. The older man spread Stiles's cheeks with on hand and used his other to line up the tip of his cock with the teen's wet hole. Guiding Stiles down a little, Peter stared earnestly into Stiles's eyes "Go slow. Move only when you're ready." Then he let his hands drift up and down the teen's thighs, stroking encouragingly.

Slow, Stiles could do that.

He took a deep breath and pushed down against Peter's cock, rocking down in increments until the tip pop through the ring of muscle. He inhaled sharply, the hard part done. Now for the rest…

Slow, so very slow, Stiles lowered himself down inch by inch, Peter's girth stretching him wider than the man's fingers alone had, until eventually he was fully seated in Peter's lap, impaled on the older man's cock. Stiles took deep, even breaths, riding out the residual discomfort from the stretch. He petted the soft hair on Peter's chest to distract himself, concentrating on the coarseness of the dark hair against his fingertips, enjoying the contrast.

Peter smiled lazily at the exploration as he patiently waited for the teen to adjust around him, perfectly still but for his thumbs brushing over Stiles's inner thighs.

Just as Stiles was about to lever himself back up, Peter grasped him by the hips, stilling him. Stiles frowned in confusion. Why stop him? He was ready to keep going.

Turning his head, Peter nodded towards the other side of the room. "Watch."

Wondering what the hell Peter was talking about, Stiles turned to look—and saw himself, naked and hard in Peter's lap.

Flushing with embarrassment, Stiles dropping his gaze to where his hands where frozen on Peter's abdomen. "I, um," Stiles faltered, unsure. He felt his erection begin to flag. Watch _himself?_ What was sexy about _that?_

Peter reached up and cupped his cheek, forcing Stiles to look into his eyes. "I want you to watch. To see how delicious and _arousing_," Peter wrapped his hand around Stiles's cock, stroking it back to full hardness, "you are. I want you to see yourself how _I_ see you," he said, then moved his hand from the side of Stiles's face to his chin. Gripping it, he turned the teen's head, making him look at the mirror again.

Stiles stared into the mirror, hypnotized by the sight of Peter's hand stroking his cock. It was surreal, in a sense, because he was feeling it and watching it happen, except that he wasn't looking down and watching it. It was more like he was outside of himself, witnessing yet still feeling, and gradually his gaze began to wander from Peter's hand to other things in the mirror's image: the angle of his legs as he straddled Peter's hips, the curves and shadows of the muscles of his lean torso, all the way up to his parted kiss-bruised lips, his flushed cheeks, and the darkness of his amber eyes.

He looked…debauched, sultry.

He looked _sexy. _

That was him, _Stiles_, in the mirror, completely identical and yet a complete stranger.

So that's what sex does.

He never really took it seriously that losing your virginity changes you, that it _transforms_ you, until he saw himself in the mirror: _transformed_. And— judging by the way Peter's mirror image was looking at him—something to be _wanted_.

Stiles was starting to get how Peter could look at him like a piece of meat, how the older man could dole out lewd compliments to him as easy as breathing, especially if _this_ was how Peter's touch made him look, if this otherworldly siren was what Peter saw.

Pride and satisfaction sank into Stiles's skin, warm and vibrant, willing him to _move_, to _flaunt_.

Thighs tensing, Stiles kept his eyes fixed on himself in the mirror, moving to rise, and this time Peter didn't stop him.

Slowly, Stiles lifted up and he gazed into the mirror as, inch by inch, Peter's thick cock was once again revealed. He stopped, held completely still with just the tip still inside, hidden by the curve of his ass, then sank again, greedily watching as Peter disappeared from view, sheathed deep inside of him.

He found an easy rhythm, a slow rock that allowed him to feel every bit of Peter's length as Stiles rose and dropped, his hips and thighs beginning to ache from the effort of working himself on Peter's cock. Every now and then, he would angle a fraction more forward so that his prostate was grazed, but not enough to get him off.

It was the most delicious tease, keeping the pace steady and smooth: a sultry, swaying dance that his whole body took part in—the muscles of his thighs working to support his weight and maintain his rhythm, his torso bending and flexing as he moved up and took his weight onto his arms, his balance shifting back down his spine to his thighs as he sank down, and then right back up—all without taking his eyes off himself.

Part of him was aware of just how narcissistic this was, getting off on the ebb and flow of his own body as well as from Peter fucking him, but it felt so _good_ being this aware of himself, so in tune with his body's desires, that he ignored anything and everything but the feel of Peter's cock and the debauchery of what the mirror showed.

Hands— Peter's hands—slid up Mirror-Stiles's thighs, caressing them, drawing abstract shapes and patterns in the light sheen of sweat on Mirror-Stiles's skin, then using his claws to retrace them, leaving behind faint red marks as Mirror-Peter's hands went up and up to Mirror-Stiles's hips. Claws still out, Mirror-Peter gripped Mirror-Stiles's hips, his claws digging in and stinging as he pulled Mirror-Stiles off balance, slamming him down harder.

Head tilted back, Mirror-Stiles groaned, the sound loud and almost punched out of him by the rough impalement, and he shuddered as pleasure swept through him.

The change in rhythm seemed to break the spell the leisurely pace had cast over Stiles and he watched raptly as need reared its head and drove Mirror-Stiles to rock faster, slamming down onto Mirror-Peter's cock harder and harder as the older man began to give into his own desire, thrusting his hips up to meet Mirror-Stiles halfway, seeking his own release.

If Stiles thought he had looked different before, he didn't even recognize himself now.

It was an animal in the mirror, teeth bared and panting, groaning and whining. A bitch in heat clawing and thrusting back against its mate as it was held in place by clawed hands and _pounded_ with punishing thrusts. Skin slapped on skin and the sheen of sweat glimmered on their bodies as they moved faster and faster, the thrusts becoming erratic—

It was Mirror-Peter's eyes that did it though, blazing blue with unrestrained lust and power, making Stiles fly apart.

Stiles was the first to come, breaking his gaze away from the mirror as he wailed, hunching forward over Peter. His nails dug viciously into the older man's skin as his body was pulled taut as a bow string, his release spurting as far up as Peter's chin from the force of his orgasm. Everything bit of him tensed up, from his curled toes to his squeezed-shut eyes to his abused hole, tight as a vice around Peter's cock even as the man continue to thrust hard and inhumanly fast.

Peter didn't even last ten seconds after Stiles had locked down around him with crushing force, the tight heat practically ripping Peter's orgasm out of him, and by some miracle he managed to keep his claws from rending Stiles's flesh.

When Peter ground his teeth around a strangled groan, Stiles blinked past the haze in his own eyes to see the older man's face scrunched up like he was in pain, panting irregularly as he held Stiles's hips down snug against his own, still trying to roll his cock up even further inside of Stiles as he came. Then finally, Peter went limp, the tension draining from him.

But his cock remained ledged deep inside of Stiles, slower to diminish.

That was just fine with Stiles, who slumped down onto Peter's chest, spent and utterly exhausted. He felt like a newborn foal, his limbs all rubbery and uncooperative with a deep burn in his thigh muscles, but Peter wasn't complaining about being used as a living pillow yet so Stiles didn't bother trying to move more than was necessary for comfort.

He didn't know how 'sweaty and sitting on a softening cock' could be comfortable, but that seemed to be how his life rolled lately (not that he minded).

Humming to himself, Peter had taken to skimming his hands over Stiles's body again, his touch light and almost tickling, making Stiles squirm on top of him. The movement forced Peter's cock out of his ass and Stiles froze as hot come oozed out of him, running down his thighs and sac and, subsequently, onto Peter.

"Um," Stiles said, his body tense with the awareness that he was leaking all over Peter, but instead of his clenching hole keeping the come in, even _more_ seemed to seep out.

It wasn't that Stiles didn't like the feeling—in fact, he liked it _a lot_, like he'd been used and abused and put away sopping wet—he just didn't know how _Peter_ felt about it. Was leaking your lover's come back onto them some kind of faux pas? Was he supposed to try to plug himself up to keep it in?

_That_ thought brought to mind some of the more interesting sex toys Stiles had come across in his enema research, of plugs you could insert to keep your partner full…

Stiles felt his cock twitch but he was too focused on the leaking problem to want to commit to another erection. Honesty was a miracle worker, so Stiles sucked it his pride and decided to get the awkwardness out of the way. "You're gonna have to walk me through this. Do you want me to get off you? 'Cause I'm kinda oozing all over you…" Stiles trailed off, absently wondering how long you could lay covered in come before it officially became gross.

One of Peter's hands slid over his ass and slipped between his cheeks, easily finding Stiles's loose, wet hole. He dipped a finger into it, pushing in and pulling out a few times until Stiles made a helpless sound and pushed back against him.

With his head halfway pillowed on Peter's shoulder, Stiles could make out the tiny smirk on the man's face, but he paid it no mind (whatever dirty thoughts the older man was entertaining were probably well earned).

"I don't mind, but I do recommend a shower in a bit. No rush, though," Peter sighed, pulling his finger free and so his hand could drift about again, smearing come over Stiles's skin as though it were finger paint.

Stiles was beginning to think it was a fetish of Peter's, rubbing his scent all over Stiles, marking him.

Okay, maybe it was one of his, too.

"No rush," Stiles agreed dreamily, his exhaustion lulling him towards sleep despite the world's most suggestive 'child's pose' position he was currently in. "I think you owe me dinner."

Peter's chuckle shook his body, but the older man didn't say no.

Happy and relaxed, Stiles smiled into Peter's shoulder, feeling completely filthy and loving it.

* * *

I feel I need to take the time to post an advisory note with regards to enema usage. ***DO YOUR RESEARCH BEFORE YOU TRY IT*** The rectum is sort of like the vagina in that it has its own healthy 'mucus' lining and bacteria levels. Over douching or douching too often or too close to sexy times can lead to problems like drying out the passage and making it susceptible to tearing during anal sex and increase the risk of spreading STDs and the like. Also, you may be allergic to certain herbs or substances used in some enema solutions so do your homework before you try more than just water.

Seriously guys, this fic would have been COMPLETELY different if I hadn't taken the time to look at page after page of tips and diagrams and warnings (yes, both me and Stiles do our homework when it comes to trying out something we don't normally do, as should everyone). SO all in all, don't just try something based on how an author described it in a story or by word of mouth. Do the leg work, know your safe limits, and practice fun, safe sex (believe it or not, it is more fun and less nerve-wracking).


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